


Alteration

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She checks her watch. Ten minutes until boarding, and she feels she’s spent the greater part of her life at LAX already. Then eleven hours in the air, then London. The thought does make her smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> The title - "Alteration" - comes from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 - "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds."

She checks her passport for the fifteenth time, then her phone, then her hair. She’s tied it back, as she usually does at airports; Florian used to say she had to, since it could easily be used to smuggle explosives. It was a joke, of course, and so, it turned out, was her marriage, but the habit stuck.

She bites her lip and shifts in her seat. It wasn’t a joke, not really, and not compared to what she likes to call Venture One to herself. Ralph was not a good idea; Florian probably was. He was, and is, a good man, and a good father, and even if they didn’t work things out in the end, that’s quite a lot to be grateful for.

She checks her watch. Ten minutes until boarding, and she feels she’s spent the greater part of her life at LAX already. Then eleven hours in the air, then London. The thought does make her smile.

Alex Kingston has, in a sense, always been an in-betweener, even before she moved to this fascinating, this crazy city. She grew up British, with the accent and school uniform to prove it, but always with half a leg on the continent; self-deprecating enough to be British, yet foreign enough to need an extra sweater when the inner thermostat all British people are, seemingly, born with allowed her friends to feel alright in a tank top in November.

Then, America – country of a highly un-European spontaneity, a newness, a craziness that tires and excites her both. She wonders, sometimes, what Salome will eventually make of it, what she’s already making of it. Another little foreign girl with indomitable hair and a deceptively British accent.

As she finally gets up along with her fellow passengers to queue for boarding, she sends a quick text to Karen who – as, she’d joked, her mum – had insisted.

_Boarding now. See you tomorrow night! A xxx_

As she slips into her seat, fastens her seatbelt and finally switches her phone off, she looks out of the window at the bright blue sky of the scorching Los Angeles afternoon. London will probably be grey, of course it will, but for some reason, even that thought makes her smile.

Even if she is, and has always been, an in-betweener, it’s still home.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a common name; she knows that. There’s probably loads of Mrs Robinsons all over London, all over the world, cursing their luck every time a mischievous friend makes a crack at their expense. At the same time, though – she knows that handwriting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt the earlier chapter was a little short to leave you guys with, so I thought I'd post the next installment at the same time. Hope you enjoy!

And Alex lands, bleary-eyed, eleven hours and ten minutes later. She’s slept a little and read a little – Eleanor Catton’s _The Luminaries_ , which a California friend recommended to her, and which she’s enjoying, although it is perhaps not exactly casual plane fare.

As she walks off the plane into the cool, early morning air of London, she switches on her phone and drops Karen another text.

_Landed, mummy. A xxx_

It’s six-thirty in the morning; she’d be extremely surprised if she heard back from Karen before ten, but old habits die hard.

Passport control goes smoothly; she is, after all, still a Brit, and the border official gives her a smile and a “welcome home” as she walks on. She nods and smiles, too.

She finds her luggage easily for once, which is a bloody _miracle_ considering her usual luck, then walks out into the arrivals hall. Nobody’s here to pick her up, of course; she’s told her parents and her sister not to bother, since it is such an ungodly hour. As she drags her trolley behind her and starts walking purposefully in the direction of the exit, she can’t help reading the signs some people are holding up.

MR GODWIN-WOLFE

WELCOME HOME, DADDY!

MRS ROBINSON

It’s a common name; she knows that. There’s probably loads of Mrs Robinsons all over London, all over the world, cursing their luck every time a mischievous friend makes a crack at their expense. At the same time, though – she knows that handwriting.

She stops in her tracks and looks up from the sign to the smirking face of the man holding it. She’s reminded of that moment River Song mentioned she could sometimes slap the doctor – reality, fiction, so very close together sometimes.

“Kingston.” he says as he pushes his sunglasses back on top of his head. She groans as she notices he’s wearing a bow tie – then he spreads his arms wide and she rolls her eyes and throws herself into a massive bear hug.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” she sighs into his shoulder, then pushes herself away at arm’s length to look into his grinning eyes.

“I don’t. But what the bloody hell are you doing here, Matthew? It’s scandalously early and I didn’t even - ”

He holds up his phone, and she groans.

“Mummy? Seriously?”

“Mummy indeed. Though I must admit it was wholly my fault – I made her tell me when your plane was due to land.”

He grabs her trolley and purposefully walks toward the parking garage. She hurries behind him until they’re side by side.

“Yes, yes, I know we’re seeing each other tonight, but why wait, eh? Can’t have my wife taking a cab to some dingy hotel at six - ”

“Practically seven now!”

“- in the morning, when – ”

“And it’s not a dingy hotel, _Matthew_. It’s a delightful little place in Bloomsbury - ”

“- I’ve got a perfectly serviceable spare room, because I’ve reached adulthood now - ”

She’s about to interrupt him again, but they reach his ridiculously bright blue Volvo and he unlocks the trunk with a click, then loads her trolley inside.

“And frankly, I was surprised she never asked.”

Before she knows it, she’s in his front seat, seatbelted up and all, and as she catches a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror she’s briefly distracted by the fact that she looks like a poofy-haired, wrinkly, pale, sweaty bride of Frankenstein. Then, she turns her head toward him as he starts the car.

“Sweetie, I -”

She would have asked, once, she realises. She would’ve told him she needed a place to stay, and could he miss his spare room, slash couch, slash mattress on the floor for just a few nights? That was during _Who_ , of course – a while ago.

“Well, it’s been a while, and I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. You don’t need a mother figure cramping your style, darling.”

He snorts so hard his foot moves too, and the car momentarily shakes.

“A _mother figure_? What have you been smoking out there in the colonies, Teen Mother Kingston?”

She can’t help laughing, and suddenly, so does he.

“Trust me, wife. I’ve thought of you in a variety of contexts before, but a _mother_ has never been one of them.”

And suddenly, she’s not quite sure what to say to that, but that’s not an option – has never been an option – in their relationship.

“Are you threatening to besmirch my honour, Matthew?”

He casts her a quick and impossibly rakish sideways grin.

“Threatening? No. Offering, perhaps.”

She just laughs and shakes her head, he turns the radio on, and soon they’re chatting about everything under the sun, as they would in the olden days.

Truth be told, Alex has always found flirting difficult; not initially, but eventually, at the point when one party or the other has to, for lack of a better and less _Pride and Prejudice_ word, declare themselves. It’s there that the danger for hurt lies, she has learned.

Things have never been that way with Matt, somehow. They can go from the filthiest flirtation to the chummiest natter in the blink of an eye.

She’s missed him. 


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spare room is not, alas, TARDIS blue, but it’s pleasant all the same, and he’s clearly gone out of his way to make it look tidy for her – which she, knowing his usual habits, appreciates. There’s a picture on the nightstand that she appreciates even more.

They arrive at his place forty-five minutes later on the dot, which is quite the feat in London traffic. Alex looks up at the building as she unbuckles her seatbelt.

“Certainly nicer than the old one! When did you move?”

He hauls her trolley out of the trunk and fishes his keys out of his pocket.

“Last summer. You did get an invite to the housewarming, you know.”

She recalls, with a guilty flush on her cheeks, an email that hung around in her inbox for weeks and that she never, somehow, got around to replying to, until that awkward moment when she archived it with the vague consolation she’d send him a life update later. Of course, that never happened.

“Right, I remember. Sorry, sweetie. It’s a great big ocean, you know.”

It’s no excuse, of course; she should’ve responded. He easily accepts her pseudo-apology, however, and soon he opens the door to his brand new apartment. The walls of his living room are painted TARDIS blue.

She giggles as she drops her purse on the sofa.

“Do you sometimes find yourself calling her ‘sexy’, by any chance?”

He grins.

“I apply that term more selectively now, Kingston.”

Alex rolls her eyes – he’s completely shameless, in that floppy-haired, boyish way that somehow means he gets away with it.

“Anyway, tea or sleep? It’s not an either/or, but you can’t very well do both simultaneously.”

She thinks.

“Sleep, I think. A couple hours of sleep and I’ll be right as rain – also less likely to scare people to death in the street. Matthew?”

“Yah?”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

She looks at him, and she means every word of her question. He’s thirty-two and – she supposes – a hip young Londoner riding the crest of his career. She’s not doing badly herself in that regard, of course, but she is in her fifties, and she finds herself reminding herself of that whenever she’s around him.

He was already on his way to what she assumes is his spare bedroom, but he stands still and looks back at her.

“Why on earth would I mind, Kingston?”

She doesn’t know how to answer that and ends the conversation with a little, sheepish shrug of her shoulders. He grins and puts an arm around her shoulders.

“Come on, you, before you decide to flee the place.”

The spare room is not, alas, TARDIS blue, but it’s pleasant all the same, and he’s clearly gone out of his way to make it look tidy for her – which she, knowing his usual habits, appreciates. There’s a picture on the nightstand that she appreciates even more.

Alex sits down on the bed and lifts the photo frame in her hand, smiling a little wistfully.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The picture is them – Matt, herself, Karen and Arthur – on the set of _The Impossible Astronaut_ , in Utah. They have their arms around each other and slightly sunburnt blushes on their cheeks, and they look happy – and like a team. The sight almost, embarrassingly, makes her tear up.

He sits next to her and looks at the picture.

“Certainly has.”

He looks up at her, then.

“We’re bloody pleased they asked you over to shoot with Capaldi, you know. We’ve missed you.”

She can’t even joke; there’s time for that later. Before she can respond, he’s pulled her into a big, squishy hug, then – in that slightly hyper way all his own – shoots up to his extraordinarily large feet.

“Got everything? Bathroom’s right across the hall. Shall I wake you around noon? Do you need anything?”

“Yes, thanks, sure, and no, darling.”

He grins and ruffles her hair – damn boy! – then slips out, leaving her alone with her trolley and the soft, incredibly inviting bed.

She changes into her pajamas, then sends a quick Whatsapp to Salome – _Hey, Sally, I’ve arrived, and I’m apparently staying with the Doctor. Having a good time? Xxx Mum_ – before finally crawling under the duvet and closing her eyes.

Her sleep is deep and dreamless.


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hello, sweetie."

“She actually agreed to stay at yours?”

Karen is practically squealing in the phone, and Matt can vividly picture her facial expressions.

“Shut up, Moonface. Of course she did. I’m not completely repulsive, you know!”

“Just don’t break anything she loves.”

He snorts. Sometimes he fears Karen knows him rather too well – his limbs started properly growing when he was twelve, and somehow he’s never quite grown into them.

“I won’t. Not a complete idiot, remember?”

“Not repulsive, not an idiot… who are you and what have you done to my Stupidface?”

She doesn’t mean it, of course; both of them know that. Even after almost two years away from _Who_ , they’re still in many ways as close as they were on set. She’s his moon-faced little sister, he’s the awkwardly gangly older brother she relishes in teasing.

“No, seriously, _Matthew_ -“

Alex was always the only one on set who occasionally – occasionally – called him that.

“They split up years ago. I don’t think she’s got anyone else – God knows I’ve tried hard enough to wrestle it out of her. You’re not… completely repulsive. I always thought she did like you.”

“In a wishy-washy sort of way.” he mimics Karen’s voice. She laughs.

“I said that _three years ago_. Plenty of time to get rid of the wish-wash. And seriously, Stupidface, you can’t keep dating girls for three months and then breaking it off because they’re not my daughter.”

For a moment, he turns serious.

“Yeah. I know.”

Karen sighs into the phone.

“I know you know. Look, I gotta go, but I’ll see you both tonight, yeah? And for God’s sake, Stupidface, _woo her!_ ”

A click, and she’s gone. Matt rolls his eyes. Trust Karen to tell him to ‘woo’ Alex – because that command is so very _descriptive_ and easy to carry out.

It’s noon, just about, and he puts the kettle on.

It’s difficult, which is probably why he’s been mooning over Alex since time immemorial – or, putting things less dramatically, since about 2011. He’s had a handful of girlfriends, of course, but they were people from uni, friends of friends, girls he met in pubs. Not endlessly attractive older women with a child and two divorces and, probably, a string of rather more well-placed and appropriately-aged admirers that wraps twice around the planet. Who live an ocean away.

It’s all pretty depressing. He dumps the Lady Grey tea bag – her favourite – into the cup with rather more force than necessary and winces as a droplet of boiling water runs down his hand. _Grand._

X

Although he knocks rather loudly, he’s surprised to see she’s still asleep as he walks into the room and puts the steaming cup of tea on the nightstand.

Alex’s curls are amply spread out over the white pillowcase – one dances across her cheek, moving slightly when she takes a breath. He smiles and sits down on the side of the bed. He’d love to pull one of her curls and watch it bounce back, but knowing his luck, she’d probably wake up at exactly that moment, and everything would be deeply weird. He certainly wouldn’t want that.

_Oh, screw it._

He grins and pulls the curl on her cheek, just slightly, and it does bounce back, and she does, of course, wake up.

She groans under her breath and stretches her arms above her head, slowly and leisurely – then opens one green eye.

His presence doesn’t seem to alarm her, which is a start, he supposes. Soon, the other eye opens and that wide, generous smile appears on her half-awake face.

“Hello, sweetie.”


End file.
